


Memory’s Prisoner

by Lani Danaë (yd203286)



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Dursleys suck, Inquisitorial Squad, Memory, Watching Harry’s Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-07 00:57:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18227759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yd203286/pseuds/Lani%20Dana%C3%AB
Summary: Umbridge crashes one of the DA meetings with her Inquisitorial Squad. A misused spell sends everyone in the room into Harry Potter's memories.





	1. Party Crasher

If it had not been for the DA lessons, Harry thought he would have been extremely unhappy. He sometimes felt he was living for the hours he spent in the Room of Requirement, working hard but thoroughly enjoying himself at the same time, swelling with pride as he looked around at his fellow DA members and saw ho far they had come. Indeed, Harry sometimes wondered how Umbridge was going to react when all the member of the DA received 'Outstanding' in their Defense Against the Dark Arts OWLs.

They had finally started working on Patronuses, which everyone had been very eager to practice, though, as Harry kept reminding them, producing a Patronus in the middle of a brightly lit room when they were not under threat was very different from producing it when confronted by a Dementor.

"Oh, don't be such a killjoy," said Cho brightly, watching her silvery swan-shaped Patronus soar around the room. "They're so pretty!"

"They're not supposed to be pretty; they're supposed to protect you," Harry said patiently. "What we really need is a boggart or something; that's how I learned. I has to conjure a Patronus while the boggart was pretending to be a Dementor -"

"But that would be really scary!" who was shooting puffs of silver vapour out of the end of her wand. "And I still - can't - do it!" she added angrily.

Neville was having trouble, too. His face was screwed up in concentration, but only feeble wisps of silver issued from his wand tip.

"You've got to think of something happy," Harry reminded them. "If I can do that, I'm certain you can."

"Harry, I think I'm doing it!" yelled Seamus, who had been brought along to his first ever DA meeting by Dean. "Look - ah - it's gone... but it was definitely something hairy, Harry!"

The door to the Room of Requirement opened and closed. Harry looked round to see who had entered, nut there didn't seem to be anybody there. It was a few moments before he realized that the people close to the door had fallen silent. Next thing he knew, something was tugging at his robe somewhere near his knee. He looked down and saw, to his great astonishment, Dobby peering up at him from beneath his usual eight woolen hats.

"Hi, Dobby!" he said. "What are you - what's wrong?"

The elf's eyes were wide with terror, and he was shaking. The members of the DA closest to Harry had fallen silent; everybody in the room was watching Dobby. The few Patronuses people had managed to conjure faded away into silver mist, leaving the room looking much darker than before.

"Harry Potter, sir," squeaked the elf, trembling from head to foot, "Dobby has come to warn you... but the house elves have been warned not to tell..."

He ran head first at the wall. Harry, who had some experience with Dobby's habits of self punishment, made to seize him, but Dobby merely bounced off the stone, cushioned by his eight hats. Hermione and a few of the other girls let out squeaks of fear and sympathy.

"What happened, Dobby?" Harry asked, grabbing the tiny elf's arm and holding him away from anything he might try to hurt himself with.

The door banged open to reveal a smug looking Umbridge.

"I happened," she said smiling at them all.

The color drained from Harry's face as Dobby began banging his head on Harry's knees. Harry dropped the elf as Umbridge walked further into the room with the Inquisitorial Squad right behind her.

"Well well well, what do we have here?" Umbridge said slowly, loving the dread that rapidly filled the room with every second of her presence. "I believe we have a secret club."

She sneered before snapping and facing her followers. "Get Potter, and keep the others in here until I decide what their punishment shall be."

Harry and several other members took frightened steps back at her order. Pansy Parkinson's eyes lit up and she stepped forward, her wand pointed directly at Harry's chest.

"Thýmisi Provolí!"

The room went black.

// A.N. //

I wrote the entirety of of this fic in 2 days because I desperately wanted to read this story and it didn't exist. It is complete so the entirety of it will be published.


	2. Into the Cubby

"What did you do?!" Umbridge screeched into the pitch blackness that had overtaken the Room of Requirement.

"I don't know! I saw it in a book! It looked like it might hurt him," Pansy yelled back.

"Does anyone know what happened?!"

"I do," Hermione raised her hand even though she couldn't see it through the darkness. "Parkinson used a curse that sends anyone near the target into the targets memories."

"WHAT?!" 

That was Harry. He was panicking in the complete darkness and hearing that everybody and their mama was going to see his memories did not help in the slightest.

"The curse broadcasts the memories with the strongest emotions attached to them."

"Is there any way we can not do that? I'd like to keep certain things private," Harry asked in the general direction of Hermione.

"Sorry, Harry. There's no reversing it. We will just have to sit through it," she said apologetically. She knew a little about Harry's childhood and understood that he didn't like talking about it. 

"Honestly, stop being so dramatic, Potter," Malfoy sneered into the darkness.

Harry grumbled angrily, but bit back his retort. Slowly the world around them brightened, and they began the first memory.

Petunia Dursley opened her door the morning of November 1st to check the mail and nearly stepped on a baby. 

The observers cringed at her shriek as she backed away from the door as quickly as possible.

"Vernon! Vernon! There's a baby at our door!"

A large man that vaguely resembled a walrus trudged to the door and picked up the no longer sleeping child. 

"It's got a note with it," Petunia said as she snatched the note from the child's grip. "Oh dear. My sister's died! And she left her baby with us!"

"What do you mean she's left her baby? I will not have this filth around our Dudley!"

"But Vernon, we have to. My sister and her stupid husband have gone and gotten themselves murdered! This Dumblydoor says keeping the little monster will keep us safe."

Vernon huffed angrily. "Fine, but he's not getting Dudley's second room. He'll sleep in the cupboard."

"In. The. Cupboard." Hermione said very slowly, twitching slightly as she turned to Harry who was sitting on the floor in front of a door under the stairs.

"The cupboard under the stairs. It was my bedroom for a long while."

He looked listless and resigned as he watched Vernon yank open the cupboard door and throw in the past version of himself. 

"There. Maybe we can forget he's there and he'll die like his good-for-nothing parents."

The DA members roared in outrage as the memory faded and they were left in a light gray haze of fog. The Inquisitorial Squad looked generally confused, but their presence was forgotten by the infuriated children.

"Harry! You live with those monsters?"

He nodded, not quite trusting his voice at the moment.

"Blimey, mate. I knew they were bastards when we first met them, but I wasn't expecting that."

Harry was saved from answering by another memory beginning.

Harry was four years old though he looked about two, with his oversized clothes making his small stature even smaller. He was sitting in the yard, pulling weeds out of the flower beds, occasionally hissing as he scraped his hand on a thorn.

"Harry, what are you doing? You don't look old enough to speak let alone weed," Ginny asked quietly.

"My relatives never bought me my own clothes, so all I had to wear were Dudley's hand-me-downs. I'm actually four in this one. Weeding was one of the first chores Aunt Petunia gave me."

"Four is still too young to be weeding," Fred or George pointed out.

Memory Harry paused his weeding to look across the street. Sitting more still than one normally would was a cat with markings that looked suspiciously like glasses. Harry grinned and walked over, carefully making sure his aunt didn't see him. He reached up to pet the cat and it darted away.

"Hey!" said little Harry, slightly insulted at being avoided.

He crept towards the cat, both staring at each other in a silent challenge, before he jumped forward and grabbed it.

"Ha!" he cheered, as he sat down in the grass and pet the reluctant cat. "You're very soft, Miss Cat."

The children looked confused at why that memory had strong emotions behind and looked to see Harry giggling silently.

"What's so funny, mate?"

"I just realized that cat was McGonagall. I had been trying to catch her for months," he said, falling back slightly from his giggling.

// A.N. //

I've always really wanted him to pet Cat McGonagall, and there's no one to stop me so I did it.


	3. He Didn’t Know Anything

They were once again in a memory. Petunia was teaching Harry how to wash dishes as that was going to be his next chore.

“Aunt Petunia? Why don’t I have a mom and dad?” 

It was an innocent question, but Petunia’s eyes flashed with anger as she swung to face the curious child.

“What have we told you about asking questions, boy?” she snapped.

“Don’t ask questions. But I want to know about my parents…”

“Your parents were good-for-nothing drunks. That’s how they died, too, got in a car accident cause they were stupid enough to drive like that! You that horrendous scar in the accident as well. That’s all I’m telling you and you will not ask me again,” Petunia hissed as she shoved a plate into his shaking hands.

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

“A CAR ACCIDENT! HOW DARE THEY?!” 

Most of the wizards present were seething in anger. Even the Slytherins were upset at the deaths of Harry’s parents being portrayed that way, though they were much better at hiding it.

“That’s what they told constantly. Hagrid was the first person to tell me about my parents. I didn’t even know what they looked like.”

“Didn’t they have any pictures,” Ron asked still visibly angry.

“They didn’t even have pictures of me, and I lived there,” Harry snorted. “Aunt Petunia hated my mom and wanted nothing to do with her.”

The fifth year Gryffindors had formed a sort of huddle around Harry as if to protect him from his past. Luna and Ginny plotted between memories, trying to find a way to get Harry out of that house. Umbridge sat on the sidelines, observing and taking notes. Most of them had forgotten she was there, and the Inquisitorial Squad tried to make themselves invisible, feeling as though they were invading something sacred and pure. A few were beginning to question what they thought of the boy-who-lived.

The world around them meddled as another memory surfaced. It was drizzling and Harry was standing in the doorway in a baggy t-shirt and oversized shorts with a threadbare drawstring bag gripped in his little hands.

“Come on, boy! You will not make Dudley late for school,” Vernon shouted at Harry as he rushed to the car before they left him. “This is the only day we’ll be bringing you, you hear? After today, you’ll be walking to school on your own. Can’t have a freak like you being seen with Dudley.”

Harry nodded as he looked out the window, attempting to memorize the way to the school. Soon, they had arrived and Harry scrambled out the car and towards the building. He got lost a few times before he managed to make it to the Kindergarten classroom. The teacher began calling attendance, checking off each name as the child raised their hand. She called Harry’s name, but he didn’t react.

Hermione sent Harry a questioning look which he replied with a head nod towards the memory.

The teacher had finished taking attendance and asked if anyone’s name hadn’t been called. Harry raised his hand.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Boy.”

“WHAT?” The room was quickly sent into silence. 

“What do you mean?”

“My uncle calls me boy.” 

The younger version of Harry looked confused and worried. His eyes were wide and he seemed to realize he had done something wrong even though he didn’t know what. The teacher brought him into the hall and retrieved a file from her desk.

“Is this you?” she said holding up a picture of him attached to a file.

“Yes ma’am.”

“It says your name is Harry Potter. Is that right?”

“No ma’am. My name is Boy, but Harry is a nice name.”

The memory faded, and left the astonished faces of every occupant in the room.

“You didn’t know your own name?” Malfoy’s voice was soft, but it seemed loud in the deadly silence the room had fallen into.

“They never told me. Uncle Vernon called me Boy, and Aunt Petunia and Dudley called me Freak. They still do.”

Malfoy was left speechless, the only sound that followed was the frantic scritch scratch of Umbridge’s quill.


	4. Bad Nights

The Slytherins had integrated themselves into the crowd. They had gotten tired of standing and decided that sitting with the others wouldn’t be horrible. Malfoy, Parkinson, Bulstrode, Crabbe, and Goyle ended up closer to the Golden Trio than they had planned. Hermione, Ron and Neville sat on the left side of Harry with the Slytherins on the right. They had just gotten comfortable when the next memory started.

Harry was once again in the kitchen, but this time, he was washing dishes on his own.

“I think I’m 8 in this one, depends on what happens next…” he trailed off as he watched the younger version of himself stand on a rickety step stool in front of the sink.

“Move over, Freak. I need this pan clean quickly and I don’t trust you to do it,” Petunia sniffed at him.

Harry attempted to quickly get off the stool and out of her way, but he misjudged how strong the stool was. The stool collapsed underneath him, sending Harry and the expensive glass he had been cleaning crashing to the floor. The glass shattered and Harry’s arm bent at an odd angle as he hit the ground. He quickly got up, panic clear in his eyes, and tried to clean the glass shards.

“How dare you?! Do you know how much that glass cost?!”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Petunia. I’ll clean it,” Harry whimpered, shying away from his aunt. Before he could duck out of the way, Petunia swung at him with the frying pan she had been cleaning, sending sprawling onto the ground into the glass shards.

“You little monster!” she roared as she grabbed his arm and dragged him into his cupboard. “You’ll be lucky if I let you out of there before next week,” she shrieked through the cupboard door.

Little Harry curled in a ball on his cot, clutching his broken arm, trying to ignore the pain as he had gotten used to doing.

Present Harry was also curled in a ball surrounded by his friends and acquaintances, trying to block out the hate he hadn’t had to deal with all year. He felt vulnerable at Hogwarts, where he didn’t expect the pain and hatred that came with living with the Dursleys every second of the day. He allowed his emotions to show, and they suddenly made him feel very weak and exposed.

Hermione ran a hand through his messy hair, unable to think of any other way to calm him down and return him to the present. Soon they were once again in the Dursley’s home, the normally boring house decorated to the nines in tinsel and garland. It was Christmas time and a large tree stood in the living already surrounded by presents though they still had a few days until Christmas.

“Boy!” Vernon yelled as he pounded on the cupboard door. “Marge is gonna be here soon and I want you at the door waiting for her. And none of your freakishness, you hear me?”

Harry, about 9 years old at this point, emerged from his cupboard thinner than ever with bruises peeking out of his oversized shirt.

Several people gasped.

“What happened,” Cho asked breathily.

“I don’t remember. I just remember being really confused that the bruises were taking longer to heal than normal. Those had been there for a couple of days, and they had never stayed that long before.”

“Your magic was healing you,” Hermione whispered.

“I know. Aunt Petunia knew, too. It just made things worse really.”

There was a loud banging at the front door, and little Harry opened it to reveal a female version of Vernon.

“Hullo, Aunt Marge,” Harry mumbled not meeting her eyes as she walked in.

She sniffed at him. “Disgraceful boy. Can’t even speak properly anymore. They should have left you in an orphanage like I suggested.”

She strolled into the living room, her dog, Ripper, stopping to growl menacingly at Harry before continuing on after her. Harry finally allowed himself to breathe when both of them were settled in the living room. The night continued and Harry slowly made his way into the living room to stand at the entrance and watch the telly before they noticed him.

Ripper noticed him first of course. Emitting a low threatening growl as it crept towards the unprepared child. He bark one, loud and fast, before charging the boy, who had finally noticed the enraged dog. Harry yelped and took off running.

“Don’t you dare run around in my house, you heathen!” Vernon yelled his face turning a dangerous shade of purple that Harry associated with not eating for a week.

Harry opened the front door and ran outside, getting a burst of energy from the cool December air as the dog followed him out. His feet kicked up mounds of snow as he ran towards the park and climbed up a tree to avoid the dog. Ripper sat at the bottom of the tree barking furiously and clawing at the trunk waiting for his prey to come down. Harry whimpered as he hugged the branch tighter.

Several hours later, Vernon followed the tracks to the tree, picked up the dog, and left the sleeping boy shivering in the tree.


	5. A Talking Snake

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs. Figg’s broken her leg. She can’t take him.” She jerked her head in Harry’s direction.

Both versions of Harry perked up at that, and present Harry got on his feet, bouncing with excitement.

“Harry, what’s so important about this memory,” asked Ron. The atmosphere of the whole room was melancholic from all the bad memories and seeing Harry so joyful created a spark of hope.

Harry ignored Ron as he watched Dudley’s mouth fall open in horror.

“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he’d planned this.

“We could phone Marge,” Vernon suggested.

“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy.”

“Oh, as if you don’t,” Malfoy scoffed next to Harry.

Harry looked at him peculiarly to which he responded with a shrug before once again focusing on the memory.

“You could just leave me here,” Harry put in hopefully.

Petunia looked like she’d just swallowed a lemon. “And come back to the house in ruins?” she snarled.

“I won’t blow up the house,” said Harry, but they weren’t listening. Dudley began crying - or screaming rather as it had been years since he actually cried.

“Dinky Duddydums, don’t cry, Mummy won’t let him spoil your special day!” she cried, flinging her arms around him.

"I... don't... want... him... t-t-to come!" Dudley yelled between huge, pretend sobs. "He always sp- spoils everything!" He shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mother's arms.

The observers cringe in disgust at the child’s actions, pitying Harry for having to deal with him so long.

Just then the doorbell rang, and a moment later, Pier Polkiss, a scrawny boy that looked like a rat, walked in with his mother. Half an hour later, Harry was happily sitting in the back of the Dursley’s car on his way to the zoo for the first time.

“I’m warning you,” Vernon said pulling Harry aside when they got to the zoo, “I’m warning you now, boy - any funny business, anything at all - and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas.

“He wouldn’t!” Lavender gasped.

“He’d try. They would need me to do something before then but I’d be in there for a long time.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” Harry said feebly, knowing Vernon wouldn’t believe him.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with people. Harry hung back as Dudley and Piers ran around harassing the animals. After lunch, they went to the reptile house. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the building; it could have wrapped its body body twice around Vernon’s car and crushed it into a trash can. Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glittering brown coils.

“Make it move,” he whine to his father. Vernon tapped the glass, but the snake didn’t budge. 

“Do it again,” Dudley ordered. Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on. Dudley had gotten bored and went to find some other beast to harass.

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. It suddenly opened its beady eyes and slowly raised its head until it eyes were on level with Harry’s. It winked.

“Did - did the snake just wink at you?”

“Shhhh, watch,” Harry said excitedly.

Memory Harry appeared to be having a conversation with the snake.

“Where do you come from anyway?” Harry asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil. “Was it nice there?”

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. “Oh, I see - so you’ve never seen Brazil?”

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump.

“DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Dudley came waddling over as fast as he could, shoving Harry out of the way in the process. Caught by surprise, harry fell hard on the concrete floor. Piers and Dudley leaned up against the glass before jumping back with howls of horror. The glass had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People were screaming and running for the exits.

As the snake slid past memory Harry, he and all of the observers heard a low hissing voice, “Brazil, here I come… Thanksss, amigo.”

“You guys heard that, too, right,” Fred asked quietly.

“The snake spoke to us,” George whispered into the silence.

“That’s what parseltongue sounds like to me. You guys can hear it because these are my memories.”

The zoo keeper had finally calmed Petunia down, and Piers had gone home right after he said, “Harry was talking to it, weren't you, Harry?"

Vernon’s purple face loomed over Harry. He looked like an enraged grape about to burst. He managed to yell, “GO - CUPBOARD - STAY - NO MEALS,” before collapsing into a chair.


	6. Drowning in Letters

“Harry, what do you think the next memory will be?”

“The day I was supposed to get my Hogwarts letter probably,” Harry sighed. He had taken to lying on his back staring up into the gray fog that surrounded them between memories.

“Supposed to?” Umbridge asked, reminding the children of her presence.

“You’ll see.”

The fog faded and the were once again in the Dursley’s house, currently in the dining room. They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Vernon from behind his paper.

“Make Harry get it.”

“Get the mail, Harry.”

“Make Dudley get it.”

“Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”

Memory Harry dodged the stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Vernon's sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter for Harry.

Mr. H. Potter  
The Cupboard under the Stairs  
4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging  
Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. Turning the envelope over, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

“Do you still live in that cupboard?” Draco snapped.

Harry shook his head. “Watch.”

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" 

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed Vernon the bill and the postcard, and began to open the yellow envelope. Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

"Marge's ill," he informed Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk -" 

"Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry's got something!"

Harry was unfolding his letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand by Vernon.

"That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back.

"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. 

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Vernon held it high out of his reach. Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

"Vernon! Oh my goodness -- Vernon!"

"I want to read that letter," Dudley said loudly. 

“I want to read it," said Harry furiously, "as it's mine."

"Get out, both of you," croaked Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Harry didn't move.

I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted. 

"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.

"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. 

That evening when he got back from work, Vernon did something he'd never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.

"Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Vernon had squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?"

"No one. it was addressed to you by mistake," said Vernon shortly. "I have burned it."

“He did what?!”

“SHHH.”

"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily, "it had my cupboard on it."

"SILENCE!" yelled Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

"Er - yes, Harry - about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom.”

"Why?" said Harry.

"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff upstairs, now."

Harry got more letters, now addressed to the smallest bedroom. They were pushed through doors and windows. On Saturday, they were hidden in eggs, and on Sunday, 40 letters came streaming out of the chimney, inspiring the Weasley twins to dance in the chaos of it all.

“That does it," said Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. “I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!"

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later, they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. They drove. And they drove. Even Petunia didn't dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while. 

"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"

Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.

Harry counted down the time until his birthday. One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten... nine -- maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him -- three... two... one…

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

BOOM. 

They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. 

"Where's the cannon?" he said stupidly.

There was a crash behind them and Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands 

"Who's there?" he shouted. "I warn you -- I'm armed!"

There was a pause. Then -

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor. A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.

“Hagrid!” the Gryffindors yelled as the memory faded.

“What was he doing there, Harry,” Ginny asked.

“Dumbledore had Hagrid bring me my letter and take me to Diagon Alley.”

“That thing brought you to Diagon Alley,” Umbridge sniffed.

“Well no one else was going to,” Harry shrugged.


	7. First Year Adventures

Harry stood rooted to the spot as Filch and Snape came around the corner ahead. They couldn't see him, but it was a narrow corridor and if they came much nearer they'd knock right into him. He backed away as quietly as he could. A door stood ajar to his left. He squeezed through it, holding his breath, and he managed to get inside the room without their noticing anything. They walked straight past, and Harry leaned against the wall, breathing deeply, listening to their footsteps dying away. 

“When was this?” Hermione asked, not recognizing this particular memory.

“Christmas, first year.”

“Oh, when you two were supposed to be researching Flamel and were doing everything but that,” she huffed.

“Sorry,” Ron mumbled.

He was in an abandoned classroom. The dark shapes of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and there was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, propped against the wall facing him. There was an inscription carved around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. 

Harry moved nearer to the mirror, wanting to look at himself but saw no reflection. He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself from screaming. Harry whirled around, his heart was pounding furiously for he had seen not only himself in the mirror, but a whole crowd of people standing right behind him.

But the room was empty. Breathing very fast, he turned slowly back to the mirror. There he was, reflected in it, white and scared-looking, and there, reflected behind him, were at least ten others. Harry looked over his shoulder - but still, no one was there. He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing right behind his reflection was smiling at him and waving. He reached out a hand and felt the air behind him. But he felt only air - she and the others existed only in the mirror.

She was a very pretty woman. She had dark red hair and her eyes were bright green -- exactly the same shape as his, then he noticed that she was crying; smiling, but crying at the same time. The tall, thin, black-haired man standing next to her put his arm around her. He wore glasses, and his hair was very untidy. It stuck up at the back, just as Harry's did.

“Are those your -” the question trailed off as Harry went to stand next to his memory self.

“This was the first time I saw my parents,” he whispered, both versions holding back tears.

The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily back at them, his hands pressed flat against the glass as though he was hoping to fall right through it and reach them. How long he stood there, he didn't know. The reflections did not fade and he looked and looked until a distant noise brought him back to his senses. He tore his eyes away from his mother's face, whispered, "I'll come back," and hurried from the room.

Harry laid back down as the memory faded. The curse was making him experience more emotions than he had had to deal with in ages, and it was taking a toll on him. 

“Harry? What’s the next memory,” Luna asked quietly.

“I don’t know. Other than me nearly dying a few times, not much happens in first year besides -” He gasped as he shot up. “Third floor corridor!”

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” Ron whined. Harry shook his head as the fog began to fade.

“Harry, if they see this, they’ll see nearly everything from the end of each school year,” Hermione said as the familiar potions puzzle she solved came into existence.

“Yeah, I know.”

Memory Hermione read a slip of paper several times, walking up and down the line of bottles, muttering to herself and pointing at them. At last, she clapped her hands.

"Got it," she said. "The smallest bottle will get us through the black fire -- toward the Stone."

Harry looked at the tiny bottle.

"There's only enough there for one of us," he said. "That's hardly one swallow."

They looked at each other.

"Which one will get you back through the purple flames?" Hermione pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end of the line.

"You drink that," said Harry. "No, listen, get back and get Ron. Grab brooms from the flying- key room, they'll get you out of the trapdoor and past Fluffy - go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore, we need him. I might be able to hold Snape off for a while, but I'm no match for him, really."

"But Harry - what if You-Know-Who's with him?"

"Well - I was lucky once, wasn't I?" said Harry, pointing at his scar.

"I might get lucky again."

“Snape?” Malfoy asked.

“He hates my guts. Of course I thought he was trying to murder me.”

Harry took a deep breath and picked up the smallest bottle. He turned to face the black flames.

"Here I come," he said, and he drained the little bottle in one gulp.

"You!" gasped Harry as he saw who was waiting for him.

Quirrell smiled. His face wasn't twitching at all.

"Me," he said calmly. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter."

"But I thought - Snape -"

"Severus?" Quirrell laughed, and it wasn't his usual quivering treble, either, but cold and sharp. "Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

Quirrell snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped themselves tightly around Harry.

"You're too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you'd seen me coming to look at what was guarding the Stone."

"You let the troll in?"

"Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls. Unfortunately, while everyone else was running around looking for it, Snape went straight to the third floor to head me off - and not only did my troll fail to beat you to death, that three-headed dog didn't even manage to bite Snape's leg off properly. Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror.”

“It was Quirrell? But he’s afraid of babies!”

“He was a pretty good actor,” Harry chuckled.

"But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing. I thought you were being threatened," Harry said attempting to distract him.

For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across Quirrell's face.

"Sometimes," he said, "I find it hard to follow my master's instructions -- he is a great wizard and I am weak -"

"You mean he was there in the classroom with you?" Harry gasped.

"He is with me wherever I go," said Quirrell quietly. "I met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.... " Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive my mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me... decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me...."

Quirrell's voice trailed away and he cursed under his breath.

"I don't understand... is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"

Harry tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass without Quirrell noticing, but the ropes around his ankles were too tight: he tripped and fell over. Quirrell ignored him. He was still talking to himself. "What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"

And to Harry's horror, a voice answered, seeming to come from Quirrell himself, "Use the boy... Use the boy..."

Quirrell rounded on Harry.

"Yes -- Potter -- come here."

Soon, the ropes were untied and Harry found himself in front of the mirror. He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket - and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. 

"Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?" 

"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invented. "I -- I've won the house cup for Gryffindor."

Quirrell cursed again.

"Get out of the way," he said. As Harry moved aside, he felt the Sorcerer's Stone against his leg. He hadn't walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though Quirrell wasn't moving his lips.

"He lies... He lies..."

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?"

The high voice spoke again. "Let me speak to him... face-to-face..." 

"Master, you are not strong enough!" 

"I have strength enough... for this...."

Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face; it was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"Harry Potter..." it whispered.

“Holy shit,” Lee Jordan whispered.

Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move.

"See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor ... I have form only when I can share another's body. Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own.... Now... why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

"NEVER!"

Harry sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort screamed "SEIZE HIM!" and the next second, Harry felt Quirrell's hand close on his wrist. At once, a needle-sharp pain seared across Harry's scar; his head felt as though it was about to split in two; he yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his surprise, Quirrell let go of him. Quirrell was hunched in pain, looking at his fingers - they were blistering before his eyes.

"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again, and Quirrell lunged, knocking Harry off his feet landing on top of him, both hands around Harry's neck 

"Master, I cannot hold him -- my hands -- my hands!"

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry, by instinct, reached up and grabbed Quirrell's face.

"AAAARGH!"

Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off - the pain in Harry's head was building - he couldn't see - he could only hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" He felt Quirrell's arm wrenched from his grasp and fell into blackness.

“That was Voldemort…” The room was in shock. Being in Harry’s memories meant they felt ghost of the pain the pain he had felt. 

“If this goes how I think it will, you’ll see him two more times.”


	8. Dobby

“And you, boy?” Vernon’s ugly face greeted them with a new memory.

“I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending that I don't exist,” Harry said walking up the stairs.

“Too right, you will. Can’t have you ruining an important meal like this.”

“Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me,” Harry sang quietly as he pushed his door open and collapsed on his bed only to immediately spring back up.

Harry managed not to shout out, but it was a close thing. The little creature on the bed had large, bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls. The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long, thin nose touched  
the carpet. Harry noticed that it was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for arm- and leg-holes.

“Potter, what is my house elf doing on your bed?”

“Trying to ruin my life, Malfoy. He’s actually very good at it.”

“Er — hello,” said Harry nervously.

“Harry Potter!” said the creature in a high-pitched voice Harry was sure would carry down the stairs. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir...Such an honor it is...”

“Th-thank you,” said Harry, edging along the wall and sinking into his desk chair, next to Hedwig, who was asleep in her large cage. He wanted to ask, “What are you?” but thought it would sound too rude, so instead he said, “Who are you?”

“Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” said the creature.

“Oh — really?” said Harry. “Er — I don’t want to be rude or anything, but — this isn’t a great time for me to have a house-elf in my bedroom. Is there any particular reason you’re here?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Dobby earnestly. “Dobby has come to tell you, sir...it is difficult, sir...Dobby wonders where to begin...”

“Sit down,” said Harry politely, pointing at the bed.

To his horror, the elf burst into tears — very noisy tears.

“S-sit down!” he wailed. “Never...never ever...”

Harry thought he heard the voices downstairs falter.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything —”

“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard — like an equal — Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later… Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

“W-what?” Harry stammered. “But I’ve got to go back — term starts on September first. It’s all that’s keeping me going. You don’t know what it’s like here. I don’t belong here. I belong in your world — at Hogwarts.”

“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped. “Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”

“Why?” said Harry in surprise.

“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!”

“What terrible things?” said Harry at once. “Who’s plotting them?”

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the headboard.

“Please stop that! I’ll have to sleep outside if you ruin Uncle Vernon’s dinner.”

And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized Harry’s desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with earsplitting yelps. A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later Harry, heart thudding madly, heard Vernon coming into the hall, calling, “Dudley must have left his television on again, the little tyke!”

“Quick! In the closet!” hissed Harry, stuffing Dobby in, shutting the door, and flinging himself onto the bed just as the door handle turned.  
“What — the —devil — are — you — doing?” said Vernon through gritted teeth, his face horribly close to Harry’s. “You’ve just ruined the punch line of my Japanese golfer joke...One more sound and you’ll wish you’d never been born, boy!”

He stomped flat-footed from the room.

Shaking, Harry let Dobby out of the closet.

“See what it’s like here?” he said. “See why I’ve got to go back to Hogwarts? It’s the only place I’ve got — well, I think I’ve got friends.”

“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” said Dobby slyly.

“I expect they’ve just been — wait a minute,” said Harry, frowning. “How do you know my friends haven’t been writing to me?”

Dobby shuffled his feet.

“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best —”

“Have you been stopping my letters?”

“Dobby has them here, sir,” said the elf. 

Stepping nimbly out of Harry’s reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. There were letters from Hermione, Ron, and Hagrid. Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry.

“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry...Dobby hoped...if Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him...Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir...”

Harry wasn’t listening. He made a grab for the letters, but Dobby jumped out of reach.

“Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word that he will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this is a danger you must not face! Say you won’t go back, sir!”

“No,” said Harry angrily. “Give me my friends’ letters!”

“Then Harry Potter leaves Dobby no choice,” said the elf sadly.  
Before Harry could move, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the stairs. Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harry sprang after him, trying not to make a sound. He jumped the last six steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, looking around for Dobby. Harry ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt his stomach disappear. Petunia’s masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the corner crouched Dobby.

“No,” croaked Harry. “Please...they’ll kill me...”

“Harry Potter must say he’s not going back to school —” 

“Dobby...please...”

“Say it, sir —”

“I can’t —”

Dobby gave him a tragic look.

“Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter’s own good.”

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby vanished. There were screams from the dining room and Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Harry, rigid with shock, covered from head to foot in Petunia’s pudding.

“Like I said he’s very good at ruining my life,” Harry grumbled. “I was locked in my room for days before Ron and the twins came to save me.”

“Glad we did. Those people get worse every time we see them,” Ron huffed.


	9. The Chamber

The fog lifted and the observers found themselves in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

“Oh thank god, we skipped Christmas,” Ron sighed completely forgetting that the Slytherins could here him.

“What happened on Christmas,” Parkinson asked curiously.

Ron paled but was saved from answering by the memory starting.

Oh, it’s you,” she said when she saw Harry march in holding Lockhart at wandpoint. “What do you want this time?”

“To ask you how you died,” said Harry.

Myrtle’s whole aspect changed at once. She looked as though she had never been asked such a flattering question.

“Ooooh, it was dreadful,” she said with relish. “It happened right in here. I died in this very stall. There was a boy in here speaking, so I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet, and then —” Myrtle swelled importantly, her face shining. “I died.”

“How?” said Harry.

“No idea,” said Myrtle in hushed tones. “I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating away...”

“Where exactly did you see the eyes?” said Harry.

“Somewhere there,” said Myrtle, pointing vaguely toward the sink in front of her toilet.

Harry and Ron hurried over to it. Lockhart was standing well back, a look of utter terror on his face. It looked like an ordinary sink. They examined every inch of it, inside and out, including the pipes below. And then Harry saw it: Scratched on the side of one of the copper taps was a tiny snake.

“That tap’s never worked,” said Myrtle brightly as he tried to turn it.

“Harry,” said Ron. “Say something. Something in Parseltongue.”

“Open up,” he said. Except that the words weren’t what he heard; a strange hissing had escaped him, and at once the tap glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin. Next second, the sink began to move; the sink sank leaving a large pipe exposed, a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into. Harry heard Ron gasp and looked up again. He had made up his mind what he was going to do.

“I’m going down there,” he said.

“Me too,” said Ron.

“Well, you hardly seem to need me,” said Lockhart, with a shadow of his old smile. “I’ll just —” He put his hand on the doorknob, but Ron and Harry both pointed their wands at him.

“You can go first,” Ron snarled.

White-faced and wandless, Lockhart approached the opening. “Boys,” he said, his voice feeble. “Boys, what good will it do?”

Harry jabbed him in the back with his wand. Lockhart slid his legs into the pipe.

“I really don’t think —” he started to say, but Ron gave him a push, and he slid out of sight.

Harry followed quickly. He lowered himself slowly into the pipe, then let go.

It was like rushing down an endless, slimy, dark slide. He could see more pipes branching off in all directions, but none as large as theirs, which twisted and turned, sloping steeply downward. The pipe leveled out, and he shot out of the end with a wet thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel large enough to stand in. Lockhart was getting to his feet a little ways away, covered in slime and white as a ghost. Harry stood aside as Ron came whizzing out of the pipe, too.

“We must be miles under the school,” said Harry, his voice echoing in the black tunnel.

“Under the lake, probably,” said Ron, squinting around at the dark, slimy walls.

“Lumos!” Harry muttered to his wand and it lit again. “C’mon,” he said to Ron and Lockhart, and off they went, their footsteps slapping loudly on the wet floor.

The tunnel was so dark that they could only see a little distance ahead. Their shadows on the wet walls looked monstrous in the wandlight.

“Remember,” Harry said quietly as they walked cautiously forward, “any sign of movement, close your eyes right away...”

“Harry — there’s something up there —” said Ron hoarsely, grabbing Harry’s shoulder.

They froze, watching. Harry could just see the outline of something huge and curved, lying right across the tunnel. It wasn’t moving.

“Maybe it’s asleep,” he breathed, glancing back at the other two. Lockhart’s hands were pressed over his eyes. Harry turned back to look at the thing, his heart beating so fast it hurt.

Very slowly, his eyes as narrow as he could make them and still see, Harry edged forward, his wand held high. The light slid over a gigantic snakeskin, of a vivid, poisonous green, lying curled and empty across the tunnel floor. The creature that had shed it must have been twenty feet long at least.

“Blimey,” both Memory Ron and the entire Weasley Clan said weakly.

There was a sudden movement behind them. Gilderoy Lockhart’s knees had given way.

“Get up,” said Ron sharply, pointing his wand at Lockhart.

Lockhart got to his feet and dived at Ron, knocking him to the ground. Harry jumped forward, but too late — Lockhart was straightening up, panting, Ron’s wand in his hand and a gleaming smile back on his face.

“The adventure ends here, boys!” he said. “I shall take a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I was too late to save the girl, and that you two tragically lost your minds at the sight of her mangled body — say good-bye to your memories!”

He raised Ron’s Spellotaped wand high over his head and yelled, “Obliviate!”

The wand exploded with the force of a small bomb. Harry flung his arms over his head and ran, slipping over the coils of snakeskin, out of the way of great chunks of tunnel ceiling that were thundering to the floor. Next moment, he was standing alone, gazing at a solid wall of broken rock.

“Ron!” he shouted. “Are you okay? Ron!”

“I’m here!” came Ron’s muffled voice from behind the rockfall. “I’m okay — this git’s not, though — he got blasted by the wand —”

There was a dull thud and a loud “ow!” It sounded as though Ron had just kicked Lockhart in the shins.

“That asshole. I was wondering what had happened to him,” Cho said with obvious disgust in her voice.

“What now?” Ron’s voice said, sounding desperate. “We can’t get through — it’ll take ages...”

Harry looked up at the tunnel ceiling. Huge cracks had appeared in it.

“Wait there,” he called to Ron. “Wait with Lockhart. I’ll go on...If I’m not back in an hour...”

There was a very pregnant pause, “I’ll try and shift some of this rock,” said Ron, who seemed to be trying to keep his voice steady. “So you can — can get back through. And, Harry —”

“See you in a bit,” said Harry, trying to inject some confidence into his shaking voice.

And he set off alone past the giant snakeskin.

Soon the distant noise of Ron straining to shift the rocks was gone. The tunnel turned and turned again. And then, at last, as he crept around yet another bend, he saw a solid wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds. Harry approached, his throat very dry. He cleared his throat, and the emerald eyes seemed to flicker.

“Open,” said Harry, in a low, faint hiss. The serpents parted as the wall cracked open, the halves slid smoothly out of sight, and Harry, shaking from head to foot, walked inside.

He pulled out his wand and moved forward between the serpentine columns. Every careful footstep echoed loudly off the shadowy walls. He kept his eyes narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the smallest sign of movement. Then, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall. And between the feet, facedown, lay a small, black-robed figure with flaming-red hair.

“Ginny!” Harry muttered, sprinting to her and dropping to his knees. “Ginny — don’t be dead — please don’t be dead —”

He flung his wand aside, grabbed Ginny’s shoulders, and turned her over. Her face was white as marble and as cold, yet her eyes were closed, so she wasn’t Petrified.

“Why on Earth did you throw your wand,” Hermione hissed.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Harry defended. “She looked dead and I freaked.”

“Ginny, please wake up,” Harry muttered desperately, shaking her. Ginny’s head lolled hopelessly from side to side.

“She won’t wake,” said a soft voice.

Harry jumped and spun around on his knees. A tall, black-haired boy was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. He was strangely blurred around the edges, as though Harry were looking at him through a misted window.

“Tom — Tom Riddle?”

Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face.

“What d’you mean, she won’t wake?” Harry said desperately. “She’s not — she’s not —?”

“She’s still alive,” said Riddle. “But only just.”

“Are you a ghost?” Harry said uncertainly.

“A memory,” said Riddle quietly. “Preserved in a diary for fifty years.”

He pointed toward the floor near the statue’s giant toes. Lying open there was the little black diary Harry had found in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Harry, sweating, managed to hoist Ginny half off the floor and bent to pick up his wand again. But his wand had gone.

“Did you see —?”

He looked up. Riddle was still watching him — twirling Harry’s wand between his long fingers.

“Thanks,” said Harry, stretching out his hand for it.

A smile curled the corners of Riddle’s mouth. He continued to stare at Harry, twirling the wand idly.

“Listen,” said Harry urgently, his knees sagging with Ginny’s dead weight. “We’ve got to go! If the basilisk comes —”

“It won’t come until it is called,” said Riddle calmly.

Harry lowered Ginny back onto the floor, unable to hold her up any longer.

“What d’you mean?” he said. “Look, give me my wand, I might need it —”

Riddle’s smile broadened.

“You won’t be needing it,” he said.

Harry stared at him, and the observers held their breaths as they watched the interaction.

“What d’you mean, I won’t be —?”

“I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” said Riddle. “For the chance to see you. To speak to you.”

“Look,” said Harry, losing patience, “I don’t think you get it. We’re in the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk later —”

“We’re going to talk now,” said Riddle, still smiling broadly, and he pocketed Harry’s wand.

Harry stared at him. There was something very funny going on here…

“How did Ginny get like this?” he asked slowly.

“Well, that’s an interesting question,” said Riddle pleasantly. “And quite a long story. I suppose the real reason Ginny’s like this is because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible stranger.”

“What are you talking about?” said Harry.

“My diary,” said Riddle. “Little Ginny’s been writing in it for months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes — how her brothers tease her, how she had to come to school with secondhand robes and books…”

Ginny’s face heated up in rage and embarrassment.

All the time he spoke, Riddle’s eyes never left Harry’s face. There was an almost hungry look in them.

“Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted...I grew stronger on a diet of her deepest fears. I grew powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her...”

“What d’you mean?” said Harry, whose mouth had gone very dry.

“Haven’t you guessed yet?” said Riddle softly. “Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the Squib’s cat.”

“No,” Harry whispered.

“Yes,” said Riddle, calmly. “Of course, she didn’t know what she was doing at first. It was very amusing.”

Harry’s fists were clenched, the nails digging deep into his palms.

“It took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop trusting her diary,” said Riddle. “But when she finally became suspicious and tried to dispose of it, you found it. Of all the people who could have picked it up, it was you, the very person I was most anxious to meet...”

“And why did you want to meet me?” said Harry. Anger was coursing through him, and it was an effort to keep his voice steady.

“Well, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry,” said Riddle. “Your whole fascinating history.” His eyes roved over the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead, and his expression grew hungrier. “I knew I must find out more about you, talk to you, meet you if I could. So I decided to show you my famous capture of that great oaf, Hagrid, to gain your trust —”

“Hagrid’s my friend,” said Harry, his voice now shaking. “And you framed him, didn’t you? I thought you made a mistake, but —”

Riddle laughed his high laugh again.

“It was my word against Hagrid’s, Harry. Well, you can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student...on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls.”

“I bet Dumbledore saw right through you,” said Harry, his teeth gritted.

“Well, he certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on me after Hagrid was expelled,” said Riddle carelessly. “I knew it wouldn’t be safe to open the Chamber again while I was still at school. I decided to leave behind a diary, preserving my sixteen-year-old self in its pages, so that one day, I would be able to lead another in my footsteps, and finish Salazar Slytherin’s noble work.”

“Well, you haven’t finished it,” said Harry triumphantly. “No one’s died this time, not even the cat. In a few hours, everyone who was Petrified will be alright again —”

“Haven’t I told you,” said Riddle quietly, “that killing Mudbloods doesn’t matter to me anymore? For many months now, my new target has been — you.”

Harry stared at him.

“How is it that you — a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical talent — managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?”

There was an odd red gleam in his hungry eyes now.

“Why do you care how I escaped?” said Harry slowly. “Voldemort was after your time...”

“Voldemort,” said Riddle softly, “is my past, present, and future...”

He pulled Harry’s wand from his pocket and began to trace it through the air, writing three shimmering words:

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

Then he waved the wand once, and the letters of his name rearranged themselves:

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

“You see?” he whispered. “You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father’s name forever? No, Harry — I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!”

“You’re not,” he said, his quiet voice full of hatred.

“Not what?” snapped Riddle.

“Not the greatest sorcerer in the world,” said Harry, breathing fast.

Riddle opened his mouth, but froze; music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled around to stare down the empty Chamber. The music was growing louder, then flames erupted at the top of the nearest pillar. A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared, it gleaming talons were gripping a ragged bundle. It dropped the ragged thing it was carrying at Harry’s feet, then landed heavily on his shoulder.

“Fawkes?” Harry breathed, and he felt the bird’s golden claws squeeze his shoulder gently.

“And that —” said Riddle, now eyeing the ragged thing that Fawkes had dropped, “that’s the old school Sorting Hat —”

“This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Potter?”

He cast an amused eye over Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, then walked away. Harry, fear spreading up his numb legs, watched Riddle stop between the high pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin, high above him in the half-darkness. Riddle opened his mouth wide and hissed, “Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four.”

Horrorstruck, Harry saw his mouth opening, wider and wider, to make a huge black hole. And something was stirring inside the statue’s mouth. Something huge hit the stone floor of the Chamber. Harry felt it shudder — he knew what was happening.

Then he heard Riddle’s hissing voice:

“Kill him.”

Eyes still tightly shut, Harry began to run blindly sideways. There was a loud, explosive spitting sound right above him, and then something heavy hit Harry so hard that he was smashed into the wall. He couldn’t help it — he opened his eyes wide enough to squint at what was going on.

The enormous serpent had raised itself high in the air and its great blunt head was weaving drunkenly between the pillars. Fawkes was soaring around its head, and the basilisk was snapping furiously at him with fangs long and thin as sabers Fawkes dived. His long golden beak sank out of sight and a sudden shower of dark blood spattered the floor. The snake’s tail thrashed, narrowly missing Harry, and before Harry could shut his eyes, it turned — Harry looked straight into its face and saw that its eyes had been punctured by the phoenix.

“NO!” Harry heard Riddle screaming. “LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU. YOU CAN STILL SMELL HIM. KILL HIM!”

The blinded serpent swayed, confused, still deadly. Fawkes was circling its head, piping his eerie song, jabbing here and there at its scaly nose as the blood poured from its ruined eyes.

The snake’s tail whipped across the floor again. Harry ducked. Something soft hit his face. The basilisk had swept the Sorting Hat into Harry’s arms. Harry seized it. He rammed it onto his head and threw himself flat onto the floor as the basilisk’s tail swung over him again. The hat contracted, as though an invisible hand was squeezing it very tightly. Something very hard and heavy thudded onto the top of Harry’s head, almost knocking him out. He grabbed the top of the hat to pull it off and a gleaming silver sword had appeared inside the hat.

The basilisk lunged blindly. Harry threw his whole weight behind the sword and drove it to the hilt into the roof of the serpent’s mouth. As warm blood drenched Harry’s arms, he felt a searing pain just above his elbow. One long, poisonous fang was sinking deeper and deeper into his arm as the basilisk keeled over sideways and fell.

He dropped the fang and watched his own blood soaking his robes, his vision went foggy. He felt Fawkes lay his beautiful head on the spot where the serpent’s fang had pierced him. He could hear echoing footsteps and then a dark shadow moved in front of him.

“You’re dead, Potter,” said Riddle’s voice above him. “Dead. Even Dumbledore’s bird

knows it. Do you see what he’s doing, Potter? He’s crying. I’m going to sit here and watch you die. Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”

Instead of going black, the Chamber came back into focus. Harry gave his head a little shake and there was Fawkes, still resting his head on Harry’s arm. A pearly patch of tears was shining all around the wound — except that there was no wound.

“Phoenix tears...” said Riddle quietly, staring at Harry’s arm. “Of course...healing powers...I forgot...”

He looked into Harry’s face. “But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me.”

He raised the wand, then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes had soared back overhead and dropped the diary in Harry’s lap. For a split second, both Harry and Riddle stared at it. Then, without thinking, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor next to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the book.

There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink spurted out of the diary in torrents, streaming over Harry’s hands, flooding the floor. Riddle was gone. Harry’s wand fell to the floor with a clatter and there was silence. Silence except for the steady drip drip of ink still oozing from the diary. The basilisk venom had burned a sizzling hole right through it.

There was silence among the observers as well.

“Congratulations. You have made through round two of ‘Voldemort Wants a Rematch’. Stay tuned for round three in which I lose,” Harry muttered into the silence as the grey fog descended over them.


	10. Marge Balloon

“Blimey mate, can’t we make these memories go slower?”

“Probably not, because I want this over as quickly as possible. The next one shouldn’t be so bad. Nothing terrible really happens in third year,” Harry shrugged.

“You mustn’t blame yourself for the way the boy’s turned out, Vernon,” Marge said over lunch. “If there’s something rotten on the inside, there's nothing anyone can do about it." 

Harry tried to concentrate on his food, but his hands shook and his face was starting to burn with anger. Marge reached for her glass of wine. 

"It's one of the basic rules of breeding," she said. "You see it all the time with dogs. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with the pup -" 

At that moment, the wineglass Marge was holding exploded in her hand. Shards of glass flew in every direction and Marge sputtered and blinked, her great ruddy face dripping. 

"Marge!" squealed Petunia. "Marge, are you all right?" 

"Not to worry," grunted Aunt Marge, mopping her face with her napkin. "Must have squeezed it too hard. Did the same thing at Colonel Fubster's the other day. No need to fuss, Petunia, I have a very firm grip..." 

The children spluttered in anger, but knew they could do anything about it, so they settled down to continue watching the memory.

The final evening of Marge's stay arrived, Petunia cooked a fancy dinner, and Vernon uncorked several bottles of wine. They got all the way through the soup and the salmon without a single mention of Harry's faults; during the lemon meringue pie, Vernon bored them all with a long talk about Grunnings; then Petunia made coffee and Vernon brought out a bottle of brandy. 

"Can I tempt you, Marge?" 

Marge had already had quite a lot of wine. Her huge face was very red. 

"Just a small one, then," she chuckled. "A bit more than that... and a bit more... that's the ticket." 

Dudley was eating his fourth slice of pie. Petunia was sipping coffee with her little finger sticking out. Harry really wanted to disappear into his bedroom, but he met Vernon's angry little eyes and knew he would have to sit it out. 

"Aah," said Marge, smacking her lips and putting the empty brandy glass back down. "Excellent nosh, Petunia. It's normally just a fry-up for me of an evening, with twelve dogs to look after...." 

She burped richly and patted her great tweed stomach. 

"Pardon me. But I do like to see a healthy-sized boy," she went on, winking at Dudley. "You'll be a proper-sized man, Dudders, like your father. Yes, I'll have a spot more brandy, Vernon.... Now, this one here --" 

She jerked her head at Harry, who felt his stomach clench. 

"This one's got a mean, runty look about him. You get that with dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown one last year. Ratty little thing, it was weak. Underbred." 

Memory Harry appeared to not be breathing as he tried not to blow up the woman.

"It all comes down to blood, as I was saying the other day. Bad blood will out. Now, I'm saying nothing against your family, Petunia" she patted Petunia's bony hand with her shovellike one, "but your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best families. Then she ran off with a wastrel, and here's the result right in front of us." 

"This Potter,” said Aunt Marge loudly, seizing the brandy bottle and splashing more into her glass and over the tablecloth, "you never told me what he did?" 

Vernon and Petunia were looking extremely tense. Dudley had even looked up from his pie to gape at his parents. 

"He -- didn't work," said Vernon, with half a glance at Harry. "Unemployed." 

The observers were getting steadily angrier at memory as it played out. They could already see present Harry shaking as he glared at the woman.

"As I expected!" said Marge, taking a huge swig of brandy and wiping her chin on her sleeve. "A no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who --" 

"He was not," said Harry suddenly. 

The table went very quiet. Harry was shaking all over. He had never felt so angry in his life. 

"MORE BRANDY!" yelled Vernon, who had gone very white. He emptied the bottle into Marge's glass. 

"You, boy," he snarled at Harry. "Go to bed, go on --" 

"No, Vernon," hiccuped Marge, holding up a hand, her tiny bloodshot eyes fixed on Harry's. "Go on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash, drunk, I expect -" 

'They didn't die in a car crash!" said Harry, who found himself on his feet. 

"They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left you to be a burden on their decent, hardworking relatives!" screamed Marge, swelling with fury. "You are an insolent, ungrateful little --" 

But Marge had suddenly stopped speaking. For a moment, it looked as though words had failed her. She seemed to be swelling with inexpressible anger -- but the swelling didn't stop. Her great red face started to expand, her tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth stretched too tightly for speech -- next second, several buttons had just burst from her tweed jacket and pinged off the walls -- she was inflating like a monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting free of her tweed waistband, each of her fingers blowing up like a salami.

“GET HER, HARRY!” the Weasley twins cheered loudly.

"MARGE!" yelled Vernon and Petunia together as Marge's whole body began to rise off her chair toward the ceiling. She was entirely round, now, like a vast life buoy with piggy eyes, and her hands and feet stuck out weirdly as she drifted up into the air, making apoplectic popping noises. Ripper came skidding into the room, barking madly. 

"NOOOOOOO!" Vernon seized one of Marge's feet and tried to pull her down again, but was almost lifted from the floor himself. A second later, Ripper leapt forward and sank his teeth into Vernon's leg. Harry tore from the dining room before anyone could stop him, heading for the cupboard under the stairs. The cupboard door burst magically open as he reached it. In seconds, he had heaved his trunk to the front door. He sprinted upstairs and threw himself under the bed, wrenching up the loose floorboard, and grabbed the pillowcase full of his books and birthday presents. He wriggled out, seized Hedwig's empty cage, and dashed back downstairs to his trunk, just as Vernon burst out of the dining room, his trouser leg in bloody tatters. 

"COME BACK IN HERE!" he bellowed. "COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT!" 

But a reckless rage had come over Harry. He kicked his trunk open, pulled out his wand, and pointed it at Uncle Vernon. 

"She deserved it," Harry said, breathing very fast. "She deserved what she got. You keep away from me." 

He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door. 

"I'm going," Harry said. "I've had enough." 

And in the next moment, he was out in the dark, quiet street, heaving his heavy trunk behind him, Hedwig's cage under his arm.

“Wooo! That was great!” 

The kids were ecstatic to see Harry’s relatives finally get what they deserved. Harry smiled as Ron hugged him, laughing, while the Slytherins smiled smugly at Marge’s misery.


	11. Little Hangleton

Harry’s feet slammed into the ground and his injured leg gave way. He fell forward and his hand let go of the Triwizard Cup.

"Where are we?" he said. 

Cedric shook his head as he pulled Harry to his feet, and they looked around. They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely and ended up in a dark and overgrown graveyard.

“This is last year,” Hermione breathed. 

Harry tensed and Umbridge held her breath in anticipation. 

"Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?" he asked. 

"Nope," said Harry. "Is this supposed to be part of the task?" 

"I dunno," said Cedric.

Harry’s wand slipped from his fingers as he put his hands over his face; his knees buckled; he was on the ground and he could see nothing at all; his head was about to split open. Above his head, he heard a high, cold voice say, "Kill the spare." A swishing noise and a second voice, which screeched the words to the night: "Avada Kedavra!" 

A blast of green light blazed through Harry's eyelids, and he opened his stinging eyes to see Cedric lying spread-eagled on the ground beside him. He was dead. For a second that contained an eternity, Harry stared into Cedric's face, at his open gray eyes, blank and expressionless as the windows of a deserted house, at his half-open mouth, which looked slightly surprised. And then, before Harry's mind had accepted what he was seeing, before he could feel anything but numb disbelief, he felt himself being pulled to his feet. The short man in the cloak had put down his bundle, lit his wand, and was dragging Harry toward with the name TOM RIDDLE inscribed in it. 

“That is Wormtail. He betrayed my parents,” Harry hissed, his barely restrained anger peaking through the anxiety. 

“That’s Peter Pettigrew. He’s supposed to be dead.”

“Yeah that’s where the whole betrayed my parents part comes in,” Harry scowled at the rat faced man in the memory.

Wormtail was busy checking the tightness of the cords, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, rumbling over the knots. Once sure that Harry was bound so tightly to the headstone that he couldn't move an inch, Wormtail drew a length of some black material from the inside of his cloak and stuffed it roughly into Harry's mouth; then, without a word, he turned from Harry and hurried away. Harry couldn't make a sound, nor could he see where Wormtail had gone. When he came back within Harry's range of vision, Harry saw him pushing a stone cauldron to the foot of the grave. 

The observers cringed back in fright as Wormtail revealed the grotesque scaly child with snake-like eyes. They watched in horror as Pettigrew performed the ritual, cutting off his own hand and taking some of Harry’s blood. No one breathed as Voldemort rose from the cauldron.

"Robe me," said the high, cold voice from behind the steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached up, and pulled them one-handed over his master's head. The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry . . . and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snakes with slits for nostrils; Voldemort had risen again.

The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved forward, forming a silent circle, which enclosed Tom Riddle’s grave, Harry, Voldemort, and the sobbing and twitching heap that was Wormtail. 

“Holy shit,” George whispered as they were surrounded by the robed figures. They had forgotten they were in a memory, dread creeping up their spines and stealing their voices. 

"Welcome, Death Eaters," said Voldemort quietly. "Thirteen years. . . thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday, we are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?" 

He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like nostrils widening. 

"I smell guilt," he said. "There is a stench or guilt upon the air. I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact - such prompt appearances! and I ask myself . . . why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?" 

No one spoke.

"Lucius, my slippery friend," he whispered, halting before him. 

Draco froze.

"I am told that you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius. . . . Your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I daresay. . . but might not your energies have been better directed toward finding and aiding your master?" 

"My Lord, I was constantly on the alert," came Lucius Malfoy's voice swiftly from beneath the hood. "Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me -" 

"And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?" said Voldemort lazily, and Mr. Malfoy stopped talking abruptly. "Yes, I know all about that, Lucius. . . . You have disappointed me. ... I expect more faithful service in the future." 

"Of course, my Lord, of course. . . . You are merciful, thank you. ..." 

Voldemort moved on, and stopped, staring at the space - large enough for two people - that separated Malfoy and the next man. "The Lestranges should stand here," said Voldemort quietly. "But they are entombed in Azkaban. They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me. . . . When Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams. The dementors will join us ... they are our natural allies ... we will recall the banished giants ... I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creatures whom all fear. ..." He walked on.

A grin curling his lipless mouth as the eyes of the circle flashed in Harry's direction. 

"Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call him my guest of honor." 

There was silence.

“I want there to be no mistake in anybody's mind. Harry Potter escaped me by lucky chance. I am now going to prove my power by killing him in front of you all, when there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him. I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger," he whispered. "Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand." 

Wormtail walked out of the circle to the place where Cedric's body lay and returned with Harry's wand, which he thrust roughly into Harry's hand after untying him. 

"You have been taught how to duel. Harry Potter?" said Voldemort softly, his red eyes glinting through the darkness.

Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could do anything to defend himself, before he could even move, he had been hit by the Cruciatus Curse. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where he was. . . . White-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, his head was surely going to burst with pain, he was screaming more loudly than he'd ever screamed in his life - And then it stopped.

The pain echoed in the minds of each of the observers. They twitched and squirmed as the sensation danced across their skin. Neville shook violently, wide eyed and afraid, as he experienced the spell that took his parents’ minds. 

“That hurt, didn't it. Harry? You don't want me to do that again, do you?" 

Harry didn't answer. 

“I asked you whether you want me to do that again," said Voldemort softly. "Answer me! Imperial." 

And Harry felt, for the third time in his life, the sensation that his mind had been wiped of all thought. . . . Ah, it was bliss, not to think, it was as though he were floating, dreaming ...just answer no ... say no …. I won't do it, I won't say it. ... Just answer no. . . . 

"I WON'T!" 

And these words burst from Harry's mouth; they echoed through the graveyard, and the dream state was lifted as suddenly as though cold water had been thrown over him - back rushed the aches that the Cruciatus Curse had left all over his body.

"You won't?" said Voldemort quietly, and the Death Eaters were not laughing now. "You won't say no? Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die. . . . Perhaps another little dose of pain?" 

Voldemort raised his wand, but this time Harry was ready; with the reflexes born of his Quidditch training, he flung himself sideways onto the ground; he rolled behind the marble headstone of Voldemort’s father, and he heard it crack as the curse missed him.

“You can’t hide from me, Harry Potter,” Voldemort whispered.

Harry burst from behind the gravestone, wand held high and shouted, “Expelliarmus!”

Voldemort cried, "Avada Kedavra!" 

A jet of green light issued from Voldemort’s wand just as a jet of red light blasted from Harry's - they met in midair - and suddenly Harry's wand was vibrating as though an electric charge were surging through it; his hand seized up around it; he couldn't have released it if he'd wanted to - and a narrow beam of light connected the two wands, neither red nor green, but bright, deep gold. Harry, following the beam with his astonished gaze, saw that Voldemort's long white fingers too were gripping a wand that was shaking and vibrating. And then he felt his feet lift from the ground. He and Voldemort were both being raised into the air, their wands still connected by that thread of shimmering golden light. The vibrating became violent shaking as echos of people Voldemort had killed emerged from the wand. First Cedric, then an old man and Bertha Jenkins, and finally his parents.

"When the connection is broken, we will linger for only moments . . . but we will give you time. . . you must get to the Portkey, it will return you to Hogwarts ... do you understand, Harry?" Lily whispered to him.

"Yes," Harry gasped, fighting now to keep a hold on his wand, which was slipping and sliding beneath his fingers. 

"Harry . . ." whispered the figure of Cedric, "take my body back, will you? Take my body back to my parents..." 

"I will," said Harry, his face screwed up with the effort of holding the wand. 

"Do it now," said his father's voice, "be ready to run . . . do it now. ..." 

"NOW!" Harry yelled. He pulled his wand upward with an almighty wrench, and the golden thread broke. 

Harry ran as he had never run in his life, knocking two stunned Death Eaters aside as he passed; he zigzagged behind headstones, feeling their curses following him, hearing them hit the headstones - he was dodging curses and graves, pelting toward Cedric's body, no longer aware of the pain in his leg, his whole being concentrated on what he had to do.

"Stun him!" he heard Voldemort scream. 

Ten feet from Cedric, Harry dived behind a marble angel to avoid the jets of red light and saw the tip of its wing shatter as the spells hit it. Gripping his wand more tightly, he dashed out from behind the angel - 

"Impedimenta!" he bellowed, pointing his wand wildly over his shoulder at the Death Eaters running at him. 

From a muffled yell, he thought he had stopped at least one of them, but there was no time to stop and look; he jumped over the cup and dived as he heard more wand blasts behind him and stretched out his hand to grab Cedric's arm. 

"Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!" shrieked Voldemort. 

Harry's hand had closed on Cedric's wrist; one tombstone stood between him and Voldemort, but Cedric was too heavy to carry, and the cup was out of reach - Voldemort's red eyes flamed in the darkness. Harry saw his mouth curl into a smile, saw him raise his wand. 

"Accio!" Harry yelled, pointing his wand at the Triwizard Cup. 

It flew into the air and soared toward him. Harry caught it by the handle - He heard Voldemort’s scream of fury at the same moment that he felt the jerk behind his navel that meant the Portkey had worked - it was speeding him away in a whirl of wind and color, and Cedric along with him. . . . They were going back.

“He’s really back,” a Ravenclaw said long after the memory had faded. 

The fog that normally filled the room came back thicker and heavier than before. Soon, they were all holding their breaths, coughing and heaving, and then it was gone. They were once again in the Room of Requirement, sitting in little groups on the floor, absorbed in the fact that Voldemort had returned.

Umbridge was the first to come to her senses, grabbing her clipboard and storming out of the room. No one tried to stop her. Ron and Hermione hugged Harry as he shook, the echoes of pain from the Cruciatus Curse slowly leaving.


	12. Umbridge’s Confrontation

Dolores Umbridge didn’t have time to think as she ran from the Room of Requirement, little pink heels clicking furiously down the corridors. It wasn’t long before she stood in front of the gargoyle that served as the entrance to Dumbledore’s office. 

“Acid Pops,” she hissed, anger lacing each syllable. She rushed up the stairs and banged violently on the door. 

“Come in,” a cheery voice called which only served to worsen her mood. 

She stormed into the office and right up to Dumbledore’s desk. 

“Call the heads of houses this instant.”

“Now Dolores, I don’t think that is entirely necessary,” he began calmly before Umbridge cut him off. 

“Call them or I shall do it myself! I don’t have the patience for you today.”

Slowly Dumbledore rose from his chair and walked towards the fireplace. When the four teachers arrived, Umbridge was pacing angrily in front of Dumbledore’s desk as he watched her curiously. 

“Good. You’re here. Sit,” she muttered, pointing to the chairs. 

“Why is it that I have been called here? I’m am incredibly busy today,” Snape said smoothly as he remained standing by the door rather than sitting. 

“Mister Potter has unwillingly shared some rather alarming secrets and I need to know how much knowledge you all had of the events,” she stated slowly, trying to calm herself down. 

“What have you done to Mister Potter, Dolores,” Dumbledore sighed. 

“I have done nothing. According to Granger the spell Parkinson used on Potter projects the targets strongest memories.”

“And what was in these memories that made you summon us?” McGonagall asked. 

“The muggles Potter was raised by appear to be entirely unfit to raise a child.”

“What makes you believe that? The Dursleys have a son of their own, do they not,” Dumbledore asked, confused. 

“Yes they do! A horrid child, really. And that son was spoiled beyond belief while Potter was forced to use a mere cupboard as a bedroom! They are atrocious people, and I demand that he be removed from that household!”

“Albus, I told they were the worst kind of muggles! Slept in a cupboard, the poor thing.”

“Is that all you found, Dolores,” Snape sneered still standing statue like by the door. 

“Of course not. You can see the memories if that would be more efficient.” 

When they finished viewing the memories of Harry’s childhood, Snape had nothing to say. He had always assumed the boy was spoiled, and it angered him that he was so horribly wrong. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I believe I will be paying a visit to Petunia Dursley now,” he said icily as he opened the door. 

“Don’t cause her too much harm. It would be a shame to get the authorities involved,” Dumbledore advised. 

Snape nodded and left. 

“I’m taking him, Albus,” McGonagall said suddenly. 

“What?”

“He is not going back to that house, and since you didn’t listen to me the first time, he will be staying with me.”

“Minerva, is that the best id-”

“This not up for discussion,” she snapped. “I’m going to find Potter. Good day.”


	13. New Beginnings

It had been hours since the curse had ended. Most of the children had left the Room of Requirement to find food or see how much they had missed. As the others left, the Room meddled into a comfortable sitting room for the remaining children.

Harry lay on a couch near the fire staring into the dancing flames, thinking. Hermione and Ron exchanged worried glances.

"Harry? What are you thinking about," Hermione asked softly.

"I'm thinking about what Umbridge will do with all the information she has on me now. I'm thinking about how much of that information is going to be in the Prophet tomorrow in Rita Skeeter's most revealing article."

"Damn, I'd forgotten about her. You think she might go easy on you, mate?"

"Not a chance. She wouldn't sacrifice a story like this for anything. I can already see the headlines: 'The Wizarding World's Savior Can't Save Himself: Abused By Muggles.' I might never leave this room again."

"Well, that would be unfortunate, Potter."

Harry looked up before groaning and rolling over. 

"What do you want, Malfoy? Can't you see I'm throwing a pity party?"

"Obviously. I'm here to propose a truce," he said sniffing at Harry's posture.

"What," Harry said dumbly as he finally sat up.

"A truce, Potter. It's obvious that you don't need to be arguing with us all the time, so let's just not argue," Parkinson said as she walked in behind Malfoy. 

"So no more useless fighting?"

"No more useless fighting," Malfoy said, a small smile appearing on his face.

Harry looked over at Ron and Hermione.

"Why not? It won't cause us any harm," Ron shrugged and Hermione nodded.

"So what do you say, Potter? Truce," Malfoy held out his hand.

Harry grinned and shook the offered hand, "Truce."

A few hours later, McGonagall had search everywhere in the castle and had finally hiked up to the Room of Requirement to find the Golden Trio plus Malfoy and Parkinson still lounged in front of the fire having a friendly conversation.

"Mister Potter, a word please," she said from the door.

Harry rolled off the couch and walk out of the room.

"This is quite a development," she said gesturing to the children still in the room.

"We've made a truce."

"I see. Well, Mister Potter, I am here on the topic of your memories, specifically your relatives," McGonagall paused, watching Harry tense for a moment. "Umbridge has made me aware of their behavior, and it has come to my attention that you have asked the headmaster not to send you back them and he refused. Now I understand that you only have two years of you education left, but I am inviting you to live with me rather than going back to the Dursleys."

Harry's eyes widened, and he gasped. No more Dursleys. He wouldn't have to see them ever again. He launched himself at McGonagall, hugging her fiercely. She stumbled slightly at the sudden weight.

"Of course I will! Thank you so much!"

She smiled softly as she pulled an arm around him.


End file.
